Given the option, I would pick tennis over “working out” every single time, but there are times, such as now, when choice is sacrificed at the altar of convenience. It seems like a trifling distinction. Both call for physical exertion and commitment. But while tennis is fun and sustainable, working out, well, must be endured.
Last week, I stepped onto the elliptical for the very first time, driven by a clarity of purpose. Change had arrived at last–or it would, as soon I could figure out how to turn on the goddamned machine. I pressed buttons–all of them–but the “OK” button did nothing, nor did the little arrows, nor did the pre-set program toggles. Pushing buttons singly and in tandem arrived at the exact same outcome, which is to say jack shit.
I was completely stumped. Ashamed, sure, but also slightly relieved at the prospect that maybe, just maybe this was fate confirming that working out was truly a terrible idea. Then I started moving my legs, and the control panel blinked to life. How twisted the logic seemed, where action was required to power on the device, in lieu of a switch.
The inaugural run was brutal, with BPMs reaching levels that couldn’t possibly have been healthy. I remember thinking in a sweat-filled haze how much the console resembled a fucked-up Lite-Brite utterly devoid of joy. I considered stopping. And then I considered manning up. “You will not defeat me, Electric Torquemada,” I declared to an empty fitness center, and finished my 2.25 elliptical miles. With three sessions under my belt now, it feels like this may be sustainable. 15 pounds. That’s all I need from this chamber of dried tears and broken New Year’s resolutions.
In true first-world fashion, my response to my first-world car troubles was one of disbelief. After all, wasn’t I supposed to benefit from the concept of double jeopardy? One automotive woe couldn’t possibly follow another in such short order, right? But follow it did, the moment I left the median, to the sound of grinding metal.
Hick Nolte had assured me my axle was fine, and I wanted to believe him. The faster I drove, however, the more piercing the sound, and I was certain parts of my car were hanging by a thread, if at all. Driving on the spare meant I could go 45 max, but with the prospect of both my front tires dislodging at any given moment, I decided to shift to the right lane, flip on the hazards, and bring it down to a cautious 30.
When you’re doing 30 in a 55, though, even with all these precautions, people still go aggro. For three slow, long miles, traffic honked and swirled around me. Every traffic light, a milestone. Every bend in the highway, an opportunity for catastrophe. And at every inch, the sound of metal scraping along asphalt. Finally, finally I limped into the parking lot of a Hampton Inn.
The next morning, another tow truck appeared to bear my car to the shop. A far younger fellow stepped out of the truck. Customary handshake, during which I noticed he was missing about a third of his teeth. But what he lacked in enamel, he more than made up for in troubleshooting panache, because within minutes he diagnosed the source of the grinding noise: a piece of wood entwined in chicken wire had lodged itself into the undercarriage. This chicken wire was dragging along the road the night prior, and the axle was indeed fine, exonerating Hick Nolte’s work. In the end, I got away with replacing just the one tire at a place that reminded me of my favorite shop back in Charlotte. Would I go back to Birmingham? Absolutely. But first, I’m going to bed. I’m headed to the gym tomorrow. Second time, in fact. I’ll tell you all about it next week.
Secondhand Rants will return on Thursday, February 13.